


The Aspen Spirit

by CrowHorse1, Dreamsnake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt, Hurt Dean, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Stanford, Protective John Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Sick Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 23:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9570932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowHorse1/pseuds/CrowHorse1, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamsnake/pseuds/Dreamsnake
Summary: There's something hunting people in the aspen forest. Dean tries to be the protective big brother, but the odds are already stacked against him when an earlier injury turns nasty and John is delayed. Pre-series with Sam aged 16, Dean aged 20.  Who will end up being the hunted?"...Dean toed off his boots and peeled off his sodden layers of clothing until he stood naked and shivering, eyeing up the dirty scum on the muddy water without enthusiasm..."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Dean, Sam and any characters from the TV show Supernatural do not belong to me in any way (sadly). I am just playing with the characters and paying homage to the truly great series that is Supernatural. This story is written purely for enjoyment, with no profit of any kind expected, intended or desired.

 

 

 

 

“You stay right here son, y’hear me?”

John levelled a hard stare at his eldest from under lowered brows; the sort of stare that made Dean straighten his shoulders and tense the muscles in his jaw, unwilling to let his father see the tremble of cold that would make him appear weak.

“Won’t take me more’n two, three days. Shouldn’t be nothin’ stirring up here for another week at least.”

“But Dad! You’re soaked!” The protest was out of his mouth before he really thought about it. It was dismissed with a sharp gesture and a look of disappointment. Winchesters did not put personal comfort before the job.

“Been worse. I can shower when I get to town.”

John unlatched the cabin door, pausing in the doorway to eye his mud splattered and drenched son.

“Look after Sammy. Keep the stove burnin’ and get yourself cleaned up.”

Winchester speak for ‘ _I trust you, love you both.’_

“Yes Sir.”  ‘ _Love you too.’_

Dean was left, water dripping off his clothes and pooling around his boots as he watched the truck’s tail lights bounce away down the rough track. It wasn’t like they could get the Impala out of here in this weather anyway, he thought bitterly.

“Dean! Shut the door will ya. It’s freezing!” Sam’s voice, coming from behind a ragged blanket strung up across the far corner of the cabin, was full of righteous teenage anger.

Dean slammed the heavy wooden door, bolted it and then laid down a salt line, reflecting sourly that the amount of wind and rain coming underneath would just wash it away in a few minutes anyway.

“Is there any more hot water?” Sam sounded miserable. “Why have we got to stay here anyway; why can’t Dad drop us off in a motel in town?”

“You know why, Sammy. We need to be here, set up, ready for when this friggin’ forest spirit shows up.” ‘ _And because there’s no money for a motel,’_ Dean thought, ‘ _not with all the credit cards maxed.’_

“No, we don’t. It’s because we’re poor, Dean. Because Dad hasn’t got a proper job, like a regular, normal person.”

Dean ground his teeth; the sharpness of Sam’s perception was matched only by the cut of his tongue. He pulled the cuff of his leather jacket over his hand and dragged the pan off the struggling woodstove; it was one of life’s little pokes in the eye that a pan handle could nearly glow with heat long before the pan contents became more than slightly warm.

He ripped back the old blanket curtain, discontented scowl fading rapidly as he took in the sight of his brother. Knees drawn up to his chin, Sam sat in an old tin tub, in a few inches of dirty-looking water, shivering.

Dean sighed. “’M sorry Sam,” he muttered, stepping forwards and pouring the warm water slowly over his brother’s head. “You deserve better than this.”

Sam rubbed vigorously at the grit in his bangs.

“So do you, Dean.”

The acknowledgement was surprising in its maturity, reminding Dean that underneath the teenage angst his little brother was growing up fast. He shoved the small towel towards Sam.

“Get dry,” he said gruffly. “There’s some clean clothes on your bunk.”

“Th, thanks Dean.” Sam’s teeth chattered as he snatched the towel and stood up, drying himself vigorously as his brother retreated to the stove.

Dean re-stacked the small pile of damp logs, moving them closer to the heat seeping through the sides of the stove. They would dry out there gradually. There was enough wood until morning and he really couldn’t face going out into the torrential rain again, not unless it was absolutely necessary.

He pulled his jacket off slowly, the wet leather sticking to his shirt sleeves and making it a ridiculously difficult task that made his back ache even more than before. He shook it out, freeing a spray of water from the leather to hiss and skitter across the hot metal surface of the stove top, then hung it over the back of a wooden chair.

Sam scooted out from behind the curtain, teeth chattering. He dragged on his dry clothes and dived under the blanket on his bunk, pulling it right up to his nose as Dean dropped another blanket on top of him and jammed a woolly hat down over the wet thatch of hair. He smirked at Sam’s wide eyes.

“Get warm sasquatch,” he said fondly. “I’m gonna get cleaned up.”

That was easier said than done. The water in the old tub was now tepid at best. Dean toed off his boots and peeled off his sodden layers of clothing until he stood naked and shivering, eyeing up the dirty scum on the muddy water without enthusiasm.

“Peachy,” he groaned, manning up and stepping into the luke-warm water with a shudder. There was a momentary impression of warmth; even the temperature of the water was warmer than his freezing feet and legs. He sat down cautiously, cringing at the feel of grit and cold tin under the cheeks of his ass. His body's reaction to the cold made the old mug quiver in his fingers as he used it to scoop water over his head and torso, sluicing away the worst of the mud with small frigid floods that set his teeth chattering.

Wind whistled through the minute gaps between the old logs, setting cobwebs swinging in the guttering light of the oil lamp and chilling the flesh on Dean’s wet face and body. He scrubbed frantically at his skin with his palms, teeth now chattering uncontrollably.

“Jeez, Dean. I can hear your teeth from here.” Sam sounded sleepy, amused.

Dean allowed himself a stiff grin and stepped out of the tub onto the slimy boards to rub miserably at his wet limbs. The only towel was wet and cold now and did little other than move the moisture around on his clammy skin. He’d found clean socks and boxers in Sam’s bag but had to settle for the same damp t-shirt. Somehow in the excitement of their rapid exit after their last job, his duffle had ended up in John’s truck. It was still in John’s truck.

Minutes later he was scrunched on his bunk, wrapped in the ragged curtain blanket and with his wet jeans and boots spread out by the stove. Maybe they’d be dry by morning, he thought, without much hope. At least Sam had stopped shivering, his face a little pink now in the lamplight as he snored softly.

Dean shuddered, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around his chest, too cold to sleep and too tired to sit up. ‘ _It’s okay_ ,’ he told himself. ‘ _Dad’ll be back soon and we can get the job done. Then mebbe we can get back to town, get a hot shower, burger, somethin’ for this friggin’ sore throat_.’ He rubbed his hands up and down the bumps of cold on his arms. _‘Why not California_ ,’ he thought. ‘ _Or Florida. Why do these freaks always live where it’s cold an’ wet?’_

Eventually, exhausted with shivering, he dozed off, to be woken a few hours later by Sam’s plaintive, “Dean... The stove’s gone out.”

“Awesome.” Dean rolled off the bunk, feeling like roadkill, his muscles surprisingly stiff and sore as he dragged wet jeans up over his thighs. Feet crammed back into soggy boots, he slipped into the clammy cold of his damp leather jacket and headed outside for logs; he was desperate for a piss anyway.

“Get the fire goin’ again, Sam. I’m gonna look for more fuel.”

Sam huffed behind him, already clattering around with the remaining pieces of wood and kindling. “On it, Dean. ‘M not completely useless.”

“I never… never mind.”

Too tired to argue, Dean shut the door behind him and headed around the side of the cabin. It was still raining, although the chill wind had now picked up to a feisty blow, throwing the icy needles sideways and driving the wet through to his skin immediately. Dean shuddered, pissing a painful stream that was torn away by the wind before he could see if it was still blood-tinged. He ducked inside the log store, zipping his fly and rubbing at his back with a grimace. It was two weeks since he’d taken a boot to the kidneys; two weeks of keeping his bruised back hidden from Sam’s inquisitive gaze, two weeks of not wincing when sometimes the pain had been so sharp he wanted to fall to his knees, two weeks of pissing when no-one was around to see the streaks of blood. He leaned on the log wall for a minute, feeling pale and dizzy, then grabbed the last armful of cut logs and trudged back around the cabin. There were more logs to chop, but right now he was too tired, too sore.

The wind hit him full in the face as he rounded the corner, trying to drive the rain right up into his nostrils. He blinked, squinted, coughing as he pushed open the door. Sam pulled him inside hastily and slammed it shut, bitching about the draft but pushing Dean next to the warmth of the stove in teenage contradiction. He tumbled the logs out of Dean’s grip and piled them by the fire to dry off.

“You’re cold.” Sam’s voice was concerned.

Dean shrugged it off, clamping his jaw to stop his teeth rattling. “Don’t go wearing out that IQ dude.”

“You look like shit.” Sam persisted, hovering, anxiety now creasing the skin between his eyes.

Dean waved him off, stitching a smirk onto his face. “I’m fine.”

His little brother regarded him with suspicion, eyes narrowing. Not arguing, yet, but not letting it go either.


	2. Chapter 2

"Dean! Wake up!" 

He was drifting in cold, dark clouds. Sam's voice pulled him down to the bunk like a tug on the string of a kite. Dean shivered awake, the light suddenly sharp as he opened his eyes.

"Sam? Whassup ?"

His brother pushed a pan under his nose as he sat upright.

"Mac'n'cheese. C'mon, it's getting cold."

The pungent smell of processed cheese powder assaulted Dean’s nostrils. He focussed blearily on the congealed orange mass in the bottom of the pan. Sam waggled it again, looking irritated. 

"It'll get cold."

"Okay."  Dean took it off him, grateful for the warmth against his fingers. "You had some?" 

Sam nodded, his face set in petulant lines. "I've been trying to wake you up for ages!"

_Look after your brother... Doin' an awesome job of that Dad..._

_"_ Sorry kiddo."  Dean kept it mild, needing all his concentration to keep his gag reflex in check.

Sam deflated immediately, his mood shifting at mercurial speed from aggrieved cook to approval-seeking little brother.

"It's good.” Dean assured him, making a big play of chewing and swallowing and hiding his nausea.  Mac'n'cheese was an established meal in the Winchester household and Sam had made a decent attempt at it, considering there was only water and powdered mix available, but despite not having eaten for hours, Dean’s stomach was uneasy, his appetite non-existent.

He forced down half under Sam's watchful eye and then pushed the pan back to him. 

"You finish it off; I'm gonna chop some wood." He waved off Sam's offer of help. "No point us both getting wet, dude." 

Half an hour later he'd chopped enough logs to last them a couple of days, passed another dribble of blood streaked urine and deposited an orange pile of regurgitated Mac'n'cheese at the side of the log store.

By the time he’d dumped the last armful of wood by the stove, his lower back was hurting beyond belief and he felt so ill it was almost funny.

Dean straightened up slowly, closing his eyes for a moment.

"You're getting sick."   No flies on young Sam.

"Head rush." Dean blinked his eyelids back open. 

"Yeah. Right." Sam sensed his brother's walls were crumbling, the mortar of 'I'm fine' dissolving under an unseen but powerful adversary. He moved in rapidly, taking a measure of control against his faltering sibling.

The wet jacket was peeled down Dean's arms; a mug of coffee thrust in his hands.

"So... are we sitting now, or falling? 'Cause it's time to call Dad." 

_Right...Dad. Call Dad._

Dean sat down without grace. No electricity for cell phone chargers meant a set check-in time when all cells would be turned on.

Sam regarded him with pity. "I'll call."

Dean nodded. "Don't tell him I'm sick," he warned. "It's just a cold."

Sam's palm slapped against his forehead before he could prevent it.

"You're hot," he said, an accusing note in his voice.

"I know I'm hot." Even Dean's wink felt off somehow. He didn’t feel hot, not in any way. Just cold, really, really cold.

"I'm telling Dad. If you’re sick, he needs to get us a room in a decent motel..."

Dean cut him off, launching to his feet and snatching the cell in a move that caused the room to tilt and fade. He dropped back onto the bunk, fiddling with the cell until he could see properly again. 

"I'll speak to him."  He checked the time swiftly and pressed speed dial.

"You're late son. Pre-arranged contact times are there for a reason!" John’s deep baritone grumbled into his ear.

"Sorry, Sir."

Dean spent a couple of minutes confirming everything was okay, received a brief rumble of instructions and turned the cell phone back off with an expression of relief. Sam glowered at him, his face twisted into one of the many variations of bitch-face he’d paraded with increasing regularity since stepping angrily into his teens.

“Dad says we might see the owner of the cabin. He ran into him on the way down. Old guy; he was heading up this way. So don’t shoot him, okay?”

“You’re the trigger happy one, not me.” Sam turned on his heel and threw himself on his bunk, producing a text book from the depths of his duffle and tilting the open page towards the lamp light.

He stayed there, nose buried in the book, for the remainder of the afternoon, not even looking up when Dean trekked outside at regular intervals.

Latest mission completed, Dean zipped himself up and took a moment to lean against the cabin wall, trying to ease the throb in his abdomen that had started up during the afternoon. It was eerily quiet; nothing moving other than the tremble of branches in the wind. A few golden-yellow aspen leaves tore themselves free and fluttered away like bright butterflies against the darkness of the pine trees.

Dean turned to go back inside and nearly fell over backwards with shock. A skinny old man was standing just a few feet in front of him, the seams and wrinkles of his weather-beaten face almost obscured by thick straggles of long hair and an un-kept beard.

“Y’must be Dean.” The man nodded as he spoke, punctuating the words in a positive way. He grinned at the startled look on the younger man's face, revealing unexpectedly white teeth. “Saw your Daddy on the way down the mountain.”

Dean recovered himself with difficulty, horrified that he’d allowed some stranger to get so close to them without noticing.

The man brushed past him, rummaged about under an old piece of tarpaulin in the log store and emerged with a jug of what looked suspiciously like moonshine. Dean raised an eyebrow, wondering if there was any more stashed away.

The old man laughed at him, wagging a finger. “You be keepin’ your hands off my ‘shine boy, or your Daddy’ll be setting a belt to your ass.”

A golden leaf skittered in front of them and settled on the wet ground. The old man toed it with his worn boot. “Your Daddy didn’t say what you was doin’ up here. Doesn’t look like no camper, you neither.”

Sam appeared around the corner of the cabin, shotgun tucked casually under his arm. The old man smiled widely at him, bringing a puzzled expression to Sam’s face.

“And you must be Sam.”

Sam looked to his brother for guidance. Dean shrugged, raising one eyebrow slightly. _I dunno, wait and see._

“Risky business, bringin’ two young uns up here this time of year.” The man peered at Sam. “He’ll be right enough though.” He turned a worried frown on Dean. “You need to be takin’ care. Aspens are shedding early this year.”

He patted Dean on the arm as he passed, his long fingers brushing the leather sleeve. For a moment they were level, eye to eye, then he was gone, leaving Dean shuddering with cold and with an uneasy feeling running over his skin.

They watched him shuffle away towards the trees.

“What's he mean? There’s something off about him, Dean.”

“Nah.” Dean shook his head, ruffling Sam’s hair. “Just some crazy old dude, been up here too long with his moonshine.”

But he made sure the door was bolted securely, closing it on a flurry of leaves that seemed to be trying to make their way inside on the chill breeze.

At the edge of the pines, the old man paused, looking back up at the cabin as a little eddy of wind caught at his long hair and lifted it away from his face. For a brief moment his eyes caught the light, a flash of intense color, exquisite in the whiskey shadowed ruins of his face.

.

The leather jacket was, at last, dry. Dean pulled the familiar comfort around himself with a feeling of profound gratitude as he filled the pockets with shotgun shells; salt in the right, shot in the left. He propped the shotgun up beside his bunk and slipped his knife under the pillow. 

"How many people have gone missing?" Sam was distracted, staring into mid-air.

"Too many." 

"One or two every year, since 1976?"

"Yeah."

"All men. All about this time of year." 

"Dad figures we've got a week before somethin' happens. He'll be back tomorrow." Dean shifted, uncomfortable but watching his brother with concern; it wasn't like Sam to be nervous. "We'll be fine dude."

"WE aren't fine now!" Sam pointed out with asperity. "You're sick."  He peered at Dean from beneath shaggy curtains of soft hair. "You should be in bed, somewhere warm. And what did that old guy mean? Why do you need to be careful?  And what's the thing with the aspen shedding early?"

"Sam!" Dean shifted again, keeping his expression carefully under control. "I dunno, okay. Dad's got the full records of the missing people now; he's on the way back up. It's some kinda pissed off spirit.  We'll do like we always do and then get outta here. Get you enrolled in school before term starts."

"But Dean..."

Dean waved it off.  Dad was coming. Everything would be okay. He had to lie down. Now. Bunk, floor, whatever... He rolled slowly onto his bunk, taking care not to lean weight on his back or flank.

"Don't sweat it, Sam."

_This sucks, big time... Hope Dad hurries up, I'm not feelin' so good. Gotta stay sharp for Sammy... Feel shitty..._

Sam chewed a fingernail, watched Dean edge himself into a position half on his back, half on his side. Not a natural Dean sprawl. His brother was far more sick than he was letting on. With a stranger roaming around and some ghost with murderous intentions on the loose, he was barely holding it together. 

Sam waited until Dean’s eyelids slid shut and then quietly moved his chair close to his brother's bunk, locating it so he was within arms' reach but had a good view of the door. He checked the salt lines and settled in the chair.  

. 

"Crap!" John stood on the brakes and the heavy truck slewed to a halt. Mudslide. Big enough to take out a good section of road.

Surprisingly, cell phone reception was fair. A team would be up at the slide in the morning. John moved the truck to place of safety; he wouldn't be there when they arrived. His kit was ready and as soon as it was light enough to pick his way over the rough ground he would be setting a fast pace for the cabin.  His boys needed him. He fingered the folder on the passenger seat, cursing the fact the records hadn't been available earlier. If they had, he would never have taken Dean up the mountain.

.

 "Dean?  Dean?"  Sam's voice was sharp. He placed a wary hand on his brother’s shoulder, giving it a light shake.

There was no reaction other than a sluggish flap of Dean's hand. A sure sign that something was very wrong.

"S'my?" Dean opened his eyes and focused slowly on his brother’s face.  "You okay?" 

"You were moaning." 

"Oh. Okay." Dean's eyelids slid back down, dark against his pale cheeks. Sam laid a palm on his brother’s forehead, hissing as he felt the dry heat. It wasn't unexpected but it was unwelcome.


	3. Chapter 3

When the light woke him, for that first miniscule sliver of time, Dean forgot that he was sick.

Then he moved.

It wasn’t much of a movement, just a tiny shift in position, but it was enough to twist a knife of pain in his abdomen. He froze, fighting to control his breathing; a light gloss of sweat forming on his forehead and upper lip as an angry drumbeat started up in his lower back.

 _Sonofabitch!_  It took a while but eventually, by sheer strength of will, he forced the pain in his abdomen into a small corner of his mind, made the aching pulse from his back become almost expected, an extension of his heartbeat.

Keeping everything carefully under control, Dean rolled up slowly to a sitting position. He ran a palm over his face, wiped the moisture on the old blanket and noted without any feeling of surprise that he seemed to be running a fever.

Sam was folded in an awkward position on a hard chair next to the bunk, a chair much too small for the excessively long limbs he had sprouted over the last year or so. Dean grimaced in sympathy and prodded Sam's shoulder with a finger.

"Hey, Sammy!"

His brother shot upright with a snort, shaggy bangs dropping over his eyes.

Dean grinned at him, giving him another poke. "Hey Chewbacca! Time to get movin'."

Sam pushed his bangs aside with an offended huff. “Jeez, Dean!" He focussed properly on his brother. "You're meant to be in bed!"

"I'm okay dude." Dean waved him off.   "Dad's gonna be back soon."

Sam was already on his feet, almost falling over himself as he rushed forwards and slapped a hand on Dean’s forehead before he could protest.

“You’re still hot. You’ve got a fever! Dad isn’t here! Why isn’t Dad here? It’s light already.”

Dean reeled under the onslaught, feebly trying to bat away Sam’s intrusive hand without moving too much. Right now, movement equalled pain.

“Dad’ll be here. I’m fine! Stop mother-henning! Dude!”

Sam retreated, scowling.

“You’re sick. I’m gonna call Dad right now.”

“You can’t.” Dean pointed out. “His cell won’t be turned on.”

“Well I’m gonna leave him a message. This isn’t right Dean, you’re sick and Dad isn’t here! You shouldn’t be left to deal with this by yourself. He doesn’t even know you’re sick, does he?”

“Sam, calm down man. I’m 20 years of age dude! I’ve got it, okay?”

“That’s great Dean, you’re a few MONTHS older than a teenager.”

Dean pushed himself up slowly onto his feet, unconsciously fisting a hand against his flank. Sam’s anger was gone instantly as belligerent teenager morphed into caring sibling. He reached out and took hold of Dean’s arm, steadying him.

“Dean? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“Nah.” The gloss of sweat was back on Dean’s upper lip. “Yeah. Just still sore, that’s all.”

“When did you get hurt?” Sam frowned at him as his mind worked overtime trying to pin down a possible injury.

“Not here.” Dean waved a dismissive hand. “Coupla weeks ago. Got in a bar fight, took a boot to the kidneys.” He shifted miserably, wincing. “It was gettin’ better. Not like I haven’t had bruised kidneys before. Then after all that trekking around with Dad… I dunno…”

“Let me see.” Sam was already easing the jacket sleeves down his arms. He dropped the jacket on the bunk and lifted up Dean’s shirts.

“This was two weeks ago? That’s one hell of a bruise.” Sam’s fingers ghosted over the skin, his face scrunching up in sympathy. “You can still see the boot tread.” His eyes measured the length and number of the marks. “That was a big guy. He kicked you more than once, huh?”

“Yeah.” Dean closed his eyes, swallowed. There’d been a moment when he’d been on his side on the dirty wooden floor, with the man’s boot thudding into his back and he’d wondered if he was going to be able to get up or if this was it, the moment he bought it, in some meaningless bar fight in a hick town in the middle of nowhere.

Sam yanked open the medical kit, hissing in surprised annoyance at the number of empty packets of anti-inflammatories and painkillers. “It was getting better. Right.”

“It was. I would’ve told Dad if it wasn’t.”

“If he was here to tell.” Sam moved around him, checking his side and abdomen with a frown. He pressed gently. “This is still swollen.”

Dean didn’t answer, only his slow blink showing how much that had hurt. Sam watched him with narrowed eyes, then carefully, deliberately, pressed a finger into the shuddering skin between Dean’s hip bone and his ribs. Dean went white, his nostrils pinching as his breath huffed out in a gasp.

“Sam! Don’t do…” The protest was cut off. Dean swallowed hard and lurched the short distance to the cabin door. He threw it open, taking just a couple of steps before he bent over and vomited helplessly onto the floor, little coming up but strings of bile and drool.

He stayed there for a while, supporting himself with his hands on his knees and spitting. Behind him the sharp tones of Sam’s angry message to John’s answerphone reached a crescendo and then ceased abruptly. His brother’s knees appeared alongside his face.

“You done?” Dean’s voice was gruff. He spat again.

“Are _YOU_ done?” Sam laid a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah.” _I’m so done._

“Dad needs to get up here. You need a clinic.”

“I’m okay.”   _Think I might need the hospital Sammy._

Dean straightened with difficulty, leaning back against the wall and hoping Sam couldn’t see that his legs were shaking. He was expecting some over-enthusiastic mother-henning and was mildly surprised when Sam didn’t deliver. His brother was staring at the trees.

“Dean? Someone’s coming.”

A small figure came into view against the aspens. A woman, pale hair bright against her dark coat. She waved at them, the gestures frantic, her voice made reedy by the distance.

“Help! Please! Help!”

Dean crowded Sam back through the doorway and grabbed his shotgun.

“You stay here; I’ve got this.”

“What!” Sam slid a machete under his canvas jacket. “Are you kiddin’ me! You can barely stand up!”

“Dude! Stay here! I’m in charge ‘til Dad gets back.” Dean brushed past his outraged brother and set off towards the trees, running on pure adrenaline and knowing already that if he stopped, if it turned out to be nothing serious, the dump of that same adrenaline through his kidneys would probably put him on the floor.

Sam hovered outside the cabin, indecisive, torn between obeying and needing to support his ailing brother. In the end, his stubborn nature prevailed and he started after Dean’s jogging figure. His brother had a good head start and had reached the woman by the time Sam covered half the distance. He could see her talking in an animated fashion, gesturing to the trees, although it was too far away to hear the words.

Dean looked back at him, his expression unreadable from that distance, just the pale gleam of his face standing out against the bright backdrop of golden aspen. He held up his hand, palm towards Sam.

Sam slowed, coming to an uncertain halt as his brother suddenly backed away from the woman. He was saying something and Sam strained his ears, his hand closing on the handle of the machete.

The woman laughed, a sharp noise that travelled. Dean raised his shotgun, shaking his head. She rushed towards him. Dean fired, the shotgun blast echoing in the open space. She disappeared.

“Shit!” Sam was already running, his long legs eating up the ground.

Dean kept the shotgun up, head turning as he scanned warily around. When she reappeared, the woman was right next to him. Sam saw her smile as she wrestled the shotgun away from his brother with superhuman strength and tossed it away. He leaped forwards over the tussocks of grass, oddly aware of the slow arc of the shotgun through the air. It disappeared into the grasses as Dean swung with his iron knife and the spirit disappeared with a shriek.

Sam felt the icy air behind him and was up-ended, mid-stride, onto his face as she slammed into him from the rear. He got his head up in time to see her materialise again behind his brother. She struck out, the thud of the blow clearly audible as it connected with the small of Dean’s back. Dean dropped to his knees, teeth bared in agony, then toppled slowly forwards onto his face.

Sam staggered to his feet, shouting something as he ran. It was too late. The spirit dropped her knees onto Dean’s back; Sam heard him scream into the wet ground and then she was gone, dragging his brother away into trees.

“Dean! DEAN!”


	4. Chapter 4

Something bad had happened. John could feel it in the air as it pressed cold as iced metal against his perspiring skin, could taste it on his lips as he panted his way up the mountain. He’d set off running before first light, running far too fast for his age, the incline, the dim light, driven by a sense of urgency he could not have explained. All he knew for sure was that something was wrong and his children were in the middle of it. So he strapped his kit on his back and ran hard, until each exhale brought the copper taste of blood onto the back of his tongue. About thirty minutes from the cabin his cell picked up and delivered an angry tirade from his youngest. John picked up the pace, the sense of dread like a lead weight swinging in his gut.

.

Sam was up and moving before Dean’s boots slid out of sight into the silver shimmer of the aspen trunks. Precious seconds ticked by as he scrabbled in the thigh high brown grass until his fingers fastened on the cold steel of the shotgun barrel.

The trees faced him like a beautiful golden wall, their leaves shivering in the breeze, standing delicate and graceful on their silver trunks but somehow forbidding, impenetrable. Sam squared his shoulders, reminding himself that they were just trees. He pushed his way through their front ranks, swiping angrily at the slender, pale twigs as they whipped across his face, leaving tiny, stinging welts.

The drag marks of Dean’s boots were mercifully clear but terrifyingly even, as though he was making no attempt to escape. A sick feeling settled in Sam’s stomach as he realised his brother was probably unconscious.

He checked his cell; the signal flickered up and down on the screen, jumping regularly between nothing and one bar. He sent John a quick message, praying it would deliver when he hit better coverage.

Suddenly he just wanted to be a little kid again, let Dad and Dean sort everything out. But John was late and Dean was in trouble. Sam pushed down the swell of panic that was trying to send him running back to the cabin. This had fallen square in his lap and he had to deal with it; he was a Winchester and his big brother needed him. He set off at a jog, following the drag marks, his long and sometimes ungainly limbs suddenly under tight control.

.

Someone whimpered. Puzzled, Dean forced his eyes open. He was moving quickly under bright leaves, grey sky. It was effortless and mesmerising until his boot heel snagged on something. The movement stopped as he was pulled taut, his back arching like a strung bow. Then a fiery fist punched him in the kidneys and he rode his own sharp inhale of breath back into darkness.

When he came back, he was underneath a dark overhang of rock, lying on what felt like cold stone. He was freezing and for some time his mind floundered around wondering why Sammy had let the stove go out again and where the hell was his jacket?

The gentle voice at his side made him jump and his wandering thoughts snapped abruptly back into his physical body beneath the rock ledge. He was shocked and annoyed in equal measures that he’d not even been aware anyone was there. He started again as cool fingers trailed down the side of his face.

“Shhh.”

Dean swallowed, teeth catching at his lower lip with the effort of forcing his tongue to obey.

“S’mmy… where’s Sammy?”

“The young one?” There was a hint of a smile in the voice. “He’s safe.”

“Gotta…” Dean ran out of steam, distracted by the tiny, bright sparks floating in front of his eyes.

“Just relax. It will all be better soon.” The voice chided him gently. “There’s no need to rush. Your Sammy can look after himself.”

Dean felt a twinge of annoyance at the “Sammy” but it wasn’t enough to keep his eyes open as the chilled fingers traced the line of his cheekbone, brushed over his lips.

“So beautiful. Just like him.” A light touch on his forehead, like the kiss of a snowflake. “I’ll save you.”

Dean wanted to protest. He was hot… definitely not beautiful, that was kind of girly. But the cold fingers slipping through his hair were soothing, taking his mind away from the fire in his torso. He was very tired. If Sammy was okay, then maybe he could sleep for a while.

.

Sam’s message pinged onto John’s cell as he reached the cabin door. He scanned it, snatched a few things from the cabin and ran for the treeline.

.

The trail had faded out where the aspens thinned. Sam cast around, but the ground was hard and he couldn’t find anything to follow. He was about to set out in a bigger circle when he heard something coming fast through the trees behind him. He waited, shotgun ready and nerves jumping, coming much closer to squeezing the trigger than he would admit, even to himself, when John’s dark head broke cover.

“Dad!”

“Sammy!” John doubled over, hands on his knees, drawing in air like a broken set of bellows.

“The trail stops. I can’t find Dean!” Sam’s voice went up an octave with relief and anger. “Where the hell were you? You were meant to be back this morning! You shouldn’t have left Dean up here, left _us_ up here. Dean’s sick!”

John straightened up, his eyes narrowing.

“Sam, get a hold of yourself son. What took your brother and how is he sick?”

Sam bit back the words he wanted to shoot at his father and grimly, precisely gave a report on everything that had happened since John drove down the mountain. John listened, firing a few questions here and there as he scanned the floor, getting down on his knees and lowering his face almost to ground level as he peered up the slope.

He climbed back to his feet and brushed his pants down as Sam finished. “This way.” He took a grip of Sam’s sleeve over his biceps and tugged him uphill. “You did good son, but now we gotta find your brother.”

Sam, deflated and oddly pleased by the “you did good”, was drawn along in the slipstream of the force that was John Winchester, not entirely sure whether he wanted to punch him or hug him.

.

Discomfort woke Dean. Everything from his lungs down to his hip bones hurt, hurt enough that sitting up was a series of carefully planned movements that still left him gasping and clutching at the shirt over his midriff.

He’d been taken; he remembered that much. And Sam was alone. Dean scrubbed his palms over his eyes, his fingers dragging the skin down towards his cheekbones. A fierce, tough manly scrub because men didn’t cry. He could do this. Getting up and walking off wasn’t so hard, not really, not even with the roar of fever in his ears and that odd shimmer that kept eating away at the edges of his vision.

The woman, spirit, whatever, had gone… for now.

 _Time to get the hell outta Dodge._ The internal Dean voice gave him a nudge.  _Roll sideways, yeah, hands and knees, that’s kinda half way._

He walked his hands up the rock wall until he was upright on his knees.

_C’mon, Clint wouldn’t pass out… get one foot flat on the floor. Gotta get to Sammy. You’re a Winchester, you sonofabitch, get up!_

He launched himself to his feet, his forehead pressed against the wall as he toppled forwards.

_Shit, that hurts…_

One slow step at a time, encouraging himself at every step, Dean shuffled out from under the rock and headed downhill towards the aspens.

_Two steps for m’Dad… two steps for Sammy, an’ another two ‘cause Sam is a pain in the ass but... well just ‘cause…_

He paused, hanging onto a tree, blinking, dizzy.

_C’mon asshat… coupla steps for Amy, Metallica shirt and under it… awesome… and two for that cheerleader back in Briston, man she was hot… Bobby, ain’t seen him in a while…_

Dean rebounded off a tree, almost fell and recovered his balance.

_Where’s m’jacket? Doesn’t matter, Sam’ll know._

A stagger, a slip.

_Don’t freakin’ fall… Joy, she sure shocked the jocks, givin’ it up to the badass loser from outta town._

Joy shimmered into life, little yellow skirt swinging over her tanned legs as she walked ahead of him.  _Slow down there sweetheart, m’comin’…_

A branch slammed into Dean’s forehead. He pushed himself clear, twigs scraping on his scalp, levelling a squint-eyed glower at the tree. _If you wanna hurt me, get in line bitch…_

Joy was almost out of sight, grinning at him over her shoulder as she shimmied between the silver trunks.

_Goddamnit!_

Another tree, Dean came to a halt, almost ready to give up when voices sounded behind him.

“You can’t have him! Now get goin’!”

There was an argument going on, a man’s voice competing with the higher tones of an angry and distressed female. The pale haired woman appeared at Dean’s side.

“He’s mine!”

“Gerroff me!” Dean batted at her, struggling to keep on his feet. “You come near me, I’m gonna start swingin’!”

A hand took his arm. Dean looked up, dazed. It was the old man from the cabin.

“You alright son?”

Dean stared at him, decided he was real. He licked his lips, concentration creasing his forehead and then spoke very clearly, very slowly.

“I think I need my Dad.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay posting this chapter... It's been the week from hell!

 

“There’s something moving. Up there.”

As they came out into the open on the pale rocks of a small ridge, Sam’s sharp eyes picked out a flicker of movement in the light foliage of the bushes among the tall aspen trunks. He pointed up the mountain.

John nodded, his face grim and tired in the weak sunlight, shadows blooming under his dark eyes.

“Keep movin’. And while you’re at it, tell me more about this injury your brother has.”

Sam kept close by his side, his legs easily long enough to match his father’s stride, but falling instead into a child’s rhythm of a half-jog, the muscle memory of years of being unable to match John’s pace taking over common sense. John raised an eyebrow.

“Take longer strides, son.”

Flushing, Sam complied, suddenly finding he’d enough breath left to speak in smooth sentences.

“Dean got in a fight, a couple of weeks back.”

“I know it.” John frowned. “We had to split town. That goddamned counsellor at your school was already poking around when he saw those bruises on your arm. If he’d got wind of your brother being arrested, he’d have called CPS for sure.”

“Dean got hurt more than he let on.” Sam’s mouth pulled tight, remembering the boot prints still visible on his brother’s back. “He took some kicks to the kidneys.”

“You knew about this?” There was a sharp note in his father’s voice.

“No! Course not.” Sam sent him a glare, pushing his boundaries but not finding it in himself to care.  "Guess you didn’t check him out too well either.”

John kept his voice even, making allowance for the stress showing on the young face. “Your brother knows to say if he’s injured. You both do. Important rule Sam, you get an injury, you get it treated. Both you boys know that.”

“Yeah, right.” Sam’s tone was belligerent, earning him a hard look from his father.

“What d’you mean by that? And mind your tone.”

“Dean’s not gonna tell you if he’s hurt.”

John pulled up short, staring at him in amazement. “Why the hell not?”

“First thing you’d do, you’d take him off the hunt…”

John nodded, frowning. “If he was hurt, I’d pull him off the hunt, yeah.”

His youngest son’s voice went up a notch in exasperation. It was so obvious; why couldn’t John see. “He doesn’t want to let you down, Dad!”

“Getting proper treatment isn’t letting anyone down. I don’t want either of you out here injured or sick. This is a dangerous gig son.”

John set off again at a fast pace, his mind analyzing the available information. “Sounds like bruised kidneys?”

“That’s what he said, yeah.” Sam admitted. “Then when we were hanging around up here in this crappy weather, it got worse, fast. He was tired, running a fever, puking, then that woman…spirit, she hit him in the back and he, he just went down."

Sam’s voice broke a little, remembering the way his brother had screamed. John bit down on his fear and lengthened his stride. There was a pattern developing in his mind and it was an ugly one.

.

The old man was much stronger than he looked, the wiry strength of his muscles easy to feel through his jacket as he pulled Dean’s arm over his shoulders and half-carried, half-steered him down the mountain.

Dean went along willingly enough, only vaguely interested in the running argument between the man and the spirit trailing behind them. He gathered she wanted to take him but the man wouldn’t let her. For some reason, although her voice alternated between sorrowful and angry, she made no attempt to actually physically wrest him away.

After a while Dean lost interest altogether in the argument and concentrated all his energy on putting one foot in front of the other, his tenuous grip on consciousness coming and going.

One moment his head was lolling forwards, one boot and then the other appearing in front of his dazed eyes as he stumbled forwards over the rounded rocks and pale greens of the damp ground. Then there’d be a brief moment of clarity; he’d pull himself upright to focus on the grey beard next to his face as his head tilted sideways into the old man’s neck. The man kept up a mumble of encouragement, the startling white teeth visible through his beard as his breath blew in and out.

They broke cover into the comparative warmth of a sunlit clearing and then suddenly John was right there, his eyes intense as he reached out steadying hands.

Sam’s relieved face and damp lashes swam briefly in front of Dean’s eyes, bringing a pang of guilt. "My fault,” he whispered miserably. “’M sorry, Sammy.”

John's mouth was moving, the shape of his words drawn out and the words themselves arriving later in a brief burst of unintelligible noise. Dean stared at him, bewildered, sagging weakly against the old man. Then John was easing him down to lie on his side. Dean blinked up at him, confused, having no recollection of leaving an upright position.

"Dad?" he whispered softly.

"Yeah son?"

But Dean didn't answer, the question already lost in a spiral of pain that had him clawing at his father’s arm.

The higher tone of Sam's voice penetrated the roaring in his ears as a soothing hand rubbed light circles on his shoulder. Dean leaned into it for a while, breathing through the pain as he'd been taught.

"Dad has help coming; hang in there okay? We'll get you out of here soon."

Sam's voice. Dean nodded weakly. He would hang in there for Sammy.

.

Sam’s hands seemed to move of their own accord, executing soothing circles on his brother’s shoulder, rubbing up and down his upper arm, wiping the greasy sweat from his forehead. He rambled on about running up the mountain, finding Dad, anything to keep Dean’s dazed green eyes fixed on his own.

The deeper growl entering John’s words caught his attention. He raised his head. John looked pissed.

“You knew about this? What the hell were you thinkin’!”

“Didn’t know you had kids or I’d never have let you have the cabin.” The old man was not backing down before John’s obvious wrath. “It’s dangerous up here this time of year, especially for that one.” He dropped his chin in Dean’s direction, then turned indignant eyes back to John.

“Your kid is real sick. Shouldn’t have been up here in the first place.”

Dean proved the point by letting out a little gasp, his body tensing under Sam’s hands as his face went even paler.

“Dad!” The urgency in Sam’s voice cut through the argument like a hot knife through butter and John thrust his cell phone into the old man’s hands and dropped down at his son’s side.

.

When the pain started building again, Dean began to count in his head, trying to remember to breathe. Just as he thought he'd reached the peak, there was a clench in his abdomen, then a vicious pulse of his kidneys that sent hot lightning arcing into his groin and ripped a helpless cry out of him. He twisted sideways in blind panic, trying to get away from the agony, turning away from the light touch of his little brother’s hands and grabbing frantically at the solid strength that was John Winchester.

"I gotcha son..." John gathered him into his arms, his breath warm whiskey on Dean's head.

Dean cried out again, the sound a sharp note of terror as he drove his face into John's chest; air whistled out through his clenched teeth, dragged back into his lungs in sharp gasps of s _weat…whiskey…leather…soap…Dad._

.

Sam scuttled forwards on his knees, the rounded stones grinding into his kneecaps through his ragged jeans, keeping his hand against his brother’s back as John folded Dean against his chest.

He knelt there, crying soundlessly, his long bangs sticking to the snot on his face as a succession of emotions chased through his eyes… fear for his brother, then huge relief that John was there, followed by an unexpected twinge of resentment, then guilt at being just a little bit jealous when Dean so clearly needed their Dad right then.

A look of determination settled on his young face. If ever the day came that John was… gone… then he’d be big enough, strong enough, to save his brother if that was needed. The determination trickled away again, as he remembered with a sick slide of guilt that he had no intention of actually being around the disaster that was the Winchester family any longer than was absolutely necessary.

John broke into his thoughts.

“Keep talkin’ to your brother, Sam. Let him know you’re there.”

Sam opened his mouth to agree but swallowed the words as Dean arched violently backwards, his fingers clawing down John’s chest. John caught the back of his head, looking directly into Dean’s staring eyes.

“Dean! Hold on kiddo, I’ve gotcha. Breathe, just breathe…”

Sam watched, horrified, his gaze shunting from the taut shock on his brother’s face to the twisted anguish on his father’s. At last Dean shuddered and relaxed, falling against John, gasping, dark lashes dropping like shadows onto his pale cheeks. John wrapped him tight, shushing him and rocking slightly as though it was a small child in his arms rather than a young man.

“Dad!”

Something in Sam’s voice made his father look up. Sam pointed wordlessly at the dark stain of blood and urine soaking the front of Dean’s pants.

John paled, his fingers shaking against Dean’s back and the shine of unshod tears in his eyes as he reached out a hand to squeeze Sam’s forearm.

“Might help with the pain, son.”

Sam’s frozen helplessness was interrupted by the whumping noise of a helicopter.  He pulled himself free, running to wave frantically with the old man.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam Winchester would never have described his father as an emotionless man. Far from it. To him, they were just the wrong sort of emotions: too stubborn, too intense, too volatile, too domineering, on occasion too depressed. At age 16, it’d never occurred to him that he may exhibit at least some of the same traits himself, that perhaps the reason they clashed so much was because they were, in some ways, alike.

Dad coming in late, soaked in whiskey and dropping in a mumbling mess into whatever armchair was available happened from time to time, but Sam would usually be in bed and, if not, Dean soon sent him in that direction, staying behind to do whatever it was that had to be done to comfort John.

It was therefore a huge surprise to him to see his father crying. Not the pained, silent slip of a tear from dark eyes down his tortured face, but the full-on version. He wasn’t even really sure how it started. One minute they were sitting next to Dean’s hospital bed and Dean was looking oddly young and fragile under the white dressings and trailing tubes and wires. Then the surgeon had called in. Dean was “very lucky”… again. “Minor surgery for a ruptured kidney”, “caught it just in time before kidney failure”, “healthy young man”, “take it very easy for quite some time”. And John had thanked him in his gruff way and the surgeon had left. And the next minute John had leaned forwards, taken Dean’s hand in his own rough one and let out a little gulping noise. Sam had looked at him, startled, and saw his father’s other hand was over his face and he was sobbing, his shoulders shaking beneath his shirt.

Sam sat there, not sure what to do, until he saw the shine of tears running through John’s fingers and tracking into his thick stubble. Then he got up and rather awkwardly put an arm around John’s shoulders, shocked by the depth of misery he could feel in the wrenching sobs. And John took his hand away from his face and threw his arm around Sam’s waist and buried his head into Sam’s chest. He got snot all over Sam’s t-shirt and that was “Eww”, but Sam didn’t really mind because he was crying himself and he didn’t know why either.

“Jeez, chick flick moment.” The hoarse whisper snapped them out of it and they looked up to see Dean’s tired green eyes fixed on them.

“I don’t mind hot nurses crying over me,” he muttered, looking a bit embarrassed. “But dude!”

So there was a lot of snot wiped on cuffs and jacket sleeves and then John went for coffee and Sam told Dean he mustn’t EVER do anything like that again. Dean protested weakly that it wasn’t his fault if some creepy ghost chick thought he was hot and decided to prove it by kicking his kidneys half way through his stomach wall.

Then John came back and asked the question that had been nagging at him since they were on the mountainside.

“Dean. Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

Dean moved the ice chip he was sucking to the side of his mouth. “Wasn’t sick,” he said, a bit muffled.

“Sam says you were sick when I left you in the cabin. That you wouldn’t tell me in case I took you off the hunt?” John’s voice was carefully neutral.

“I didn’t know I was sick.” Dean looked sheepish. “A bit banged up, after that fight, bruised kidneys… but nothin’ serious. It just got worse, real quick.”

John frowned at him. “You had bruised kidneys from that fight? That must be, what, nearly three weeks ago now?”

Dean dropped his gaze, fiddling with the cup of ice chips. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly.

“You told me you took a few punches son, not a beating.”

Sam snorted, despite himself. “Maybe you should’ve checked him out better Dad. He’s still got boot marks on his back.”

John levelled a gaze at his youngest. He nodded, not looking pleased. “Maybe I should’ve.” His head swung back to Dean. “But you should’ve spoken up! How many times have I told you, you can’t go into a hunt compromised.”

He flexed his shoulders a little, easing away the tension that had settled there.

“We had to uproot and move ‘cause of that fight. You never told me what it was about?” John’s tone left no doubt that he wanted to know, now.

Dean squirmed a bit, looking up at John under his lashes. “Someone said somethin’.”

“You’re gonna have to do better than that son.”

Dean scowled. “Someone said we were losers, dropouts. All of us.”

“So you hit him?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s chin came up. “I punched him. And his friends.”

John looked at him, his eyes sad but a little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Sometimes, when the odds are too high, it’s better to walk away?”

Dean glared at him. “No-one is bad mouthin’ my family.”

His father huffed, ruffled his hair affectionately. “Yeah.” He sighed. “Well next time, come get me first, okay? And then we’ll both kick their asses.”

Sam stared at them, not sure whether to laugh or cry, it was so ridiculous. It was obvious from the look on John’s face that he would be making a call back to their last place of residence sometime soon. Sam decided that when he went to college… and that was when, not if… he might study law, find some way for idiots like his family to resolve issues without resorting to violence all the time.

Dean’s voice broke into his thoughts. “We’ll take Sammy along too. He’s gettin’ kinda big.”

Sam did grin then. The law was all very well, but if his family needed him as back up, he was up for it. “’Kay,” he said. “Can we wait ‘til school is out though, ‘cause I really don’t want to have to move again this year.”

-o-

With the boys settled in a reasonable motel some ten miles away from the mountain, with strict instructions to stay put, John headed into the nearest diner to see if he could turn up some information on where to find the old man. Diners and bars were by far the best places to unearth scraps of information, so long as you knew who and how to ask. In truth, he’d rather have done the asking over beer than eggs and coffee, but the bar wasn’t open yet and the caffeine boost would be welcome.

It was one of those rare occasions when fate seemed to be on his side. He was lounging at a table, waiting for his order to arrive, when the old man walked in. His face fell at the sight of John, but to his credit he didn’t hesitate, just came right up to the table and raised an eyebrow at the empty bench seat.

“Just the man I’m lookin’ for.” John, waving to the seat in an easy way, wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

The old man sighed and slid onto the seat, holding out his hand. “Don’t believe we’ve been introduced proper. Joe’s the name.”

John took it. “John.”

“Yeah. I recall.” Joe slouched back in his seat, laying one arm along the back. He didn’t look anywhere near as worried as John thought he should be in the circumstances. In fact, he didn’t look worried at all.

“Let’s cut past all the bullshit. You know somethin’ about what’s goin’ on up there.”

Joe met his gaze. “Yeah. I do. And I’m thinkin’ mebbe you’re the man to do somethin’ about it?”

John nodded, grim. “I am. You know that’s a spirit, right?”

“Yeah. Ghost. Lacy Brooks. Went to high school with her. Real pretty girl. Damn shame what happened.”

“What happened exactly?”

John’s question went unanswered, interrupted by the arrival of the waitress with his coffee. She smiled a kind, motherly smile, unperturbed by the remains of John’s dark scowl.

“There ya go honey.”

John blinked; it had been a while since someone called him ‘honey’. He remembered his manners in time and gave her a smile as she unloaded his coffee and buttered eggs. She turned to Joe with a wide smile.

“How ya doin’ Joe? What can I getcha?”

To John’s intense surprise, Joe gave her a ‘Dean’ look from under his lashes, his white teeth appearing in a charming grin. It occurred to John that, if Dean lived long enough, one day he just might look a little like this man. It shocked him so much and started wheels whirring in his head so fast that he didn’t realise at first that Joe had spoken to him.

“You were asking?” Joe prompted him, looking a little amused, as though he’d read John’s mind.

John took a slurp of coffee. “What happened to Lacy?”

Joe turned the sugar shaker in his fingers, spinning it idly across the table top. “She fell in love, back in high school, local kid, Ben. You know the thing, fell in love in high school, got herself pregnant, gonna get married…” The sugar shaker stilled. “Ben built this cabin up in the aspen forest, the one you and your boys were in. They were gonna set up home there. Then he got drafted.”

Joe flicked a quick glance in his direction, then looked away out of the diner window. His expression was tight as he pulled at his beard.

John waited, patient.

“Ben didn’t make it home.” There was a weight of pain in the words. “Lacy didn’t take it so well. Lost the baby, ended up taking her own life, up in the woods.” Joe turned to him, sorrow in his golden eyes. “I guess she’s been waitin’ for him to come home ever since. At first, she was just a presence, I think mebbe only I saw her. Then young men started disappearing… I didn’t want to believe it at first; she was such a good girl y’know? Didn’t know what to do.”

“They change. After a bit. Happens to ‘em all eventually.” John found he felt sorry for him, though he wasn’t sure why. “We’re goin’ to have to stop her.”

Joe dropped his head. “Yeah. It’s time. I’ll help ya, if I can.”

“What is she, to you?”

There was a lost expression on Joe’s face when he raised his head. “She was gonna be my sister-in-law.”

-o-

Dean was sore, tired, pissed at not being on the hunt. He made up his mind to follow doctor’s orders so he could get back to normal as soon as possible. Rest enough, drink the right fluids, eat right, rest some more. After four hours he was bored out of his mind.

There was nothing on the TV, although that wasn’t surprising as there were only three channels and one of those was all static. He gave it up as a bad job and flipped the control idly in Sam’s direction. It bounced off his open text book and fell onto his lap.

“Dean!” Sam scowled at him. “Working here dude.”

“’M bored.” Dean’s face settled into lines of discontent.

“You’re pouting.” Sam pointed out.

“I don’t pout!” Dean’s lip disagreed. “I scowl in a manly dude way.”

“Yeah, right.” Sam looked at his lip pointedly. “My mistake.”

“’M bored.” Dean reminded him. “There’s nothin’ on TV.”

“You could try reading maybe?” Sam waited. Dean did read. He actually liked reading sometimes. But there was no way he was going to admit it.

“I’m not a geek, Sam!” There it was. Sam smirked.

“I’m not reading. There’s nothin’ on TV. I can’t play poker with myself. Where are my skin mags?”

“Dude! Gross. You’re not leering over them while I’m studying. ‘Sides, Dad threw ‘em out when we moved.”

“What!” Dean looked affronted. “He had no right. And it’s studyin’, just a different subject, that’s all.” He hoisted himself up carefully, swearing under his breath at his own weakness.

“What are you doing?” Sam watched him with suspicion.

“Sitting outside.” There was a snap in Dean’s tone. He was not a good patient. He held up a palm in Sam’s direction. “Jacket is on, Sam. There’s a bench so I’m not gonna get piles or nothin’.” He slammed his way out of the room.

Sam peeked out of the window, glad the table was next to it so he could study and make sure his brother didn’t wander off at the same time. Dean was settling grumpily and with care onto the bench outside the room. If he hadn’t been pouting before, he certainly was now. Sam smiled and turned back to his studies.

Dean settled back, miserable, angry at himself and everything else. He just wanted to feel well again. He was twenty and he felt like an old man. He turned his face into the breeze, grateful for its freshness against his skin, keeping his eyes carefully averted from the aspen tree at the end of the parking lot. Something in the shiver of its leaves against the pale bark reminded him uncomfortably of pale hair and soft fingers against his face.


	7. Chapter 7

 

Sam raised his head from his textbook; he leaned back on his chair, raising his arms in a long, slow stretch as he worked the kinks out of his spine. He peered through the window. Dean was still on the bench, something in his posture and the way he was hunched into his jacket suggesting he was cold, or tired, or both.

Sam ambled outside with a casual air and dumped himself down on the bench, his coltish legs sprawling across the walkway.

Dean glanced across at him. “You done studying? You’ve been holed up in there all day.”

“Yeah. For now.” Sam tucked his hands into his pockets, dropping his chin. “I’ll do some more later on I guess. Swapping schools…” He shrugged. “Just want to make sure I get good grades, y’know?”

“You always get good grades dude.”

“Well now they need to be really good. I’ve gotta think of the future.”

Dean turned his head towards his little brother, watching the play of expressions across a face partly obscured by wind-blown bangs. Sam straightened up, turning earnest hazel eyes in his direction.

“I hate it when you get hurt.”

Dean frowned, slightly thrown by the sudden fork in the conversational path and sensing that it was heading in a direction he didn’t want to take.

“It was just a fight, that’s all.” He said evenly.

Sam’s jaw came up, a fire lighting in his eyes. “No. It was a fight because of the way we live.”

“Bullshit Sam.” Dean’s face tightened.

“It was!” Sam insisted. “If we didn’t live like this, if we had a proper home, none of this would’ve happened. You wouldn’t have been fighting, we wouldn’t have been up in the mountains…”

“Hey…” Dean cut him off, a sharper tone entering his voice. “I’d probably have been fighting anyway, over somethin’.” He really didn’t want to have this argument today.

Sam scowled. “If we had a proper father, a responsible parent, you would’ve been checked out in the hospital, not taken up some mountain to be attacked by a ghost!”

Dean ground his teeth. “This one is on me, Sam. Not Dad. I’m the one didn’t say how bad I was hurt!”

Tears of frustration welled in his little brother’s eyes. “I hate this! I hate seeing you like this!” He wrenched a hand out of his pocket and swiped his hair away from his eyes. “I’m not gonna keep doing this!”

The lurch in Dean’s gut made his face pale; he could actually feel the effect like a cold tingle in his cheeks. He swallowed, not wanting to hear Sam utter something he’d been hinting at for some time.

“Keep doin’ what?”

Sam swept his hand dramatically around them. “This! Living like this, watching you get hurt. Hunting! I’m not gonna keep hunting. It’s not what I want from my life, Dean!”

The lurch turned into a sick flare of adrenaline, setting Dean’s heart thumping and twisting fingers into his sore kidneys. He stared at his brother, wide-eyed.

“Huntin’ is what we do.”

“No. It’s what Dad does. It’s not what I want to do. I’m going to college and I’m going to get a career, a normal life.” Sam spoke with precision, sounding suddenly calmer, more mature. “This is Dad’s fight.”

Dean looked away from him, staring across the parking lot. “It’s my fight too, Sammy.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” For the first time there was something unsure in Sam’s voice.

Dean kept his eyes fixed on the golden aspen tree. “Mebbe I want it to be.”

Sam subsided on the bench beside him. Dean froze, almost as though he was scared that any movement on his behalf would prompt more razor-edged words. He breathed slowly through his nose, his pulse skipping along. Somewhere deep inside the pinprick of fear that’d haunted him for months was growing, turning into a black hole he suspected just might swallow him whole one day.

They sat in silence in the cool breeze until Dean gave an involuntary shiver. His brother turned to him immediately, a frown knitting his brows.

“It’s getting cold out here.” He stood up. Dean considered ignoring the outstretched hand, but he was too tired for playing games. He took a grip of the warm skin and bone with his own chilled fingers and pulled himself up, letting go immediately.

By the time he was inside and his jacket was slung across the bottom of his bed, Sam had already set out meds and a glass of water and was rattling a pan around on the little heating ring. It smelt like mac’n’cheese was on the menu.

Dean swallowed the pills and lay down carefully on top of his bed, watching Sam through tired eyes. Everything was changing and he didn’t like it. Not at all.

.

Joe, it seemed, wasn’t the man he appeared to be at first glance. The top of the range pick-up was a surprise, but when John followed him home and pulled up on the wide sweep of driveway before the ranch-style house he found it hard to keep his jaw from dropping.

Joe held open the heavy wooden door with a hint of amusement crinkling the skin at the corners of his eyes as John stepped inside, feeling suddenly out of place in his worn clothes and dirty boots in this place of understated style and obvious wealth.

Joe ushered him into the comfort of a leather couch and pointed at a decanter of whiskey.

“Help y’self.”

John did, sniffing appreciatively at the warm aroma of good liquor.

Joe pulled a leather bound album out of a bookcase that took up most of one wall. He put it on the table next to the decanter and opened it to a photograph of a stunningly pretty young girl.

“Lacey.”

“Pretty girl.” John acknowledged.

“Yeah she was.” Joe poured himself a shot of whiskey. “Like I said, Ben was drafted… we both were. I came home again; he didn’t.” He swallowed the shot, fast, grimacing against the smooth burn of the whiskey and the bitterness of the memory. John nodded, grim, understanding only too well that some pain never went away, no matter how many years had passed.

“Long before I got home, Lacey had already lost the baby. She’d shut herself up in the cabin Ben built. I tried to help…” His expression turned bitter. “I guess I made it worse. Not surprisin’ really.” He poured them both another shot, not elaborating.

“Anyhow, when she made it plain she didn’t want nothin’ to do with me, I couldn’t stay round here, too many memories. So I went off for a few years, worked in the oil business; I used to send money to Lacey, though I never heard if she kept it or not. Then I got lucky, made a few dollars, so I came back up here one spring. Turns out Lacey was already dead, killed herself the autumn before.” He sighed. “Terrible business. Terrible waste.”

He flipped a few pages forwards and pulled out some newspaper clippings.

“The first coupla years after Lacey died, I’d felt a presence up near the cabin. I used to make some ‘shine up that way and was storing it in the cabin. The cabin, the land around it, it all belongs to me. On the third autumn, a man hiking up there went missin’.”

Joe pushed a clipping towards John.

“Same again the next autumn, and the next…” More clippings. All young men, handsome, their faces full of life in the photographs. “Then there was a gap of a few years. I started to believe it’d all been just a coincidence, but then it started up again. I saw her for the first time that year… scared the hell outta me. She was still Lacey, y’know, but different, harder, less stable than I remembered her back in high school. I guess it was the grief changed her. Ever since then, every few years, happens again.”

Joe raked a hand through his hair, tugged at his beard. “I got a preacher up here an’ everythin’. Holy water and prayin’ all over the cabin and the damn mountainside. Didn’t make no difference.”

“You’ve got yourself a vengeful spirit.” John stared at the photographs, the same faces as those he’d found in the library back in town. The faces that had sent him running up the mountainside to his boys.

“She buried nearby, Joe?”

“Nope. Cremated. Her and the baby both.”

John explained about things that could be holding the spirit, preventing it from moving on.

“I got nothin’.” Joe assured him. “Pretty sure there ain’t nothin’ in the cabin apart from mebbe a few pots and pans. I cleared it all out and burned it years ago. We’ll get ourselves up there though and have a good look around, see if y’can see somethin’ I’ve been missin’.”

John nodded, absently flipping the pages of the album. Lacey smiled out at him, happiness radiating out of her face as she leaned into a young man, tucked under his arm. John’s heart lurched. “Is that Ben?”

“Yeah.”

John swallowed. It wasn’t Dean, but the physical resemblance was remarkable, although the eyes, like Joe’s, were more golden brown than green. He flipped the page, mouth dry as he found another picture of the young man. “He looks a lot like my boy.”

“That’s not Ben.” Joe stared at the photograph, an odd tone in his voice. “That’s me.” He raised his eyes to John. “Me and Ben were twins.”

.

“Dean!”

Dean stirred, batting irritably at the hand shaking his shoulder.

“Time for your meds.” Sam waved them under his nose, all earnest hazel eyes.

Dean took them and swallowed them with the prescribed glass of water. He sat up groggily, annoyed at himself for falling asleep, again.

“Dad ‘phoned.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “What’s he say?”

“They’re going up to the cabin. Should be back down by tonite.” Sam beamed. “Dad says this Joe has an awesome house and we can all stay there ‘til you’re okay. He’s gonna move us over there tonite or tomorrow morning.”

“I hope he’s got a TV,” Dean said grouchily. “This place sucks big time.”

“"Yeah,” replied Sam happily. “A big TV and a study full of books and a hot-tub and everything!”

“Thought you didn’t like him, Sam?”

“He’s got books Dean, like serious books. He can’t be all bad.”

Dean stared at his younger brother, incredulous. “You’re such a geek.”

Sam huffed, indignant, muttering something under his breath about it being nice to have a conversation with someone intelligent for a change.

“What did ya say there?” Dean asked with a dangerous note in his voice.

“Nothin’.” Sam beat a hasty retreat, shutting himself in the bathroom and turning on the shower.

A hot-tub sounded good, Dean thought. He stared out of the window; it was raining again, long streams of water running down the glass and distorting the shapes of the cars and trees outside. A large bead of rain collected at the top of the frame and slid down the window, momentarily magnifying the aspen tree and making it seem as though the branches were reaching out towards him.

Dean drew back rapidly, blinking and cursing the meds for making him see things. Even so, he carefully renewed the salt lines across the doorway and in front of the windows before rolling himself back under the covers.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... the plot moves along a little, but there's plenty of action and angst to follow!


	8. Chapter 8

 

“I told ya,” Joe said, pushing the meagre contents of a drawer around disconsolately. “There ain’t nothin’ up here. I got shot of it all years ago, not that there was much anyhow.”

John rasped his fingers through his stubble. “You say they were cremated, her and the… baby?”

“Yeah.”

“She have folks around here still?”

“Nope. They moved away soon after she died.”

“So, if there aren’t any possessions, no remains, what in hell is keeping her here?” John leaned up against the rough timber of the cabin wall, pondering. “Do you think it’s the cabin? You said your brother built it for them to live in?”

“He did.” Ben glanced around the dim interior. “Wouldn’t that mean she was sorta tied to it though?”

“She’s not?” John cast a glance out of the open doorway to the spectral figure that had lingered at the edge of the trees the entire time they’d been at the cabin.

“Nah.” Joe shook his head. “She turns up all over the goddamn place. Other side the mountain, my place, on the highway the other side of town…”

“The other side of town!” John was incredulous. “That’s gotta be 30 miles from here!”

“Yep.”

John scrubbed his fingers across his chin again, rasp, rasp, rasp. “Anyone else see her?”

“No. You, your sons… I guess the guys that got taken. One had his girlfriend with him and she wasn’t sure what she’d seen.”

John straightened, his gaze sharpening. “It’s gotta be on you. You still got anythin’ of your brother’s you carry about.”

“Nothin’.”

The single word conveyed so much loss that John shuddered, a startling memory of Dean’s devastated face in Flagstaff slamming itself into the forefront of his thoughts.

Joe gulped, audible in the silence of the cabin. He studied his hands, as though he could still see something on them. “Wasn’t enough left to bring anythin’ home.”

“You were there?” John asked, shocked.

“Yeah.” Joe’s voice was a dry husk. “Couldn’t save him. Nobody could’ve.”

He turned away abruptly and slammed the drawer shut. “Better get back down afore dark, fetch those boys of yours.”

.

"C'mon son. Time to go." John kicked the toe of Dean's boot gently with his own.

His eldest startled awake, blinking sleepy eyes at him and flushing with embarrassment when he realised he'd dozed off on the couch, duffle by his side, while his father and Sam were taking the rest of their possessions out to the vehicles.

He stretched and stood up quickly, his cheeks still burning. John raised an eyebrow at him, the intense smoulder of his gaze interrogating Dean.

"You need your brother to drive?"

Dean read the second, unspoken question in the depths of his father's dark eyes. _“You okay there, son?”_

"Nah, I'm good to drive." Dean dropped his eyes, ducked his chin a little. _"Been better.”_

"Meds making you sleepy, huh?" John slapped him on the back on the way past. "Good. You'll heal quicker."

Dean wasn't sure how to read that one.

The drive over to the ranch took about thirty minutes; thirty minutes of Dean feeling strangely exposed away from the protection of the salt lines. He drove close behind John in a tense, slightly hunched forward position, until a warning ache in his shoulders and a foul glare from John as they made a right turn made him realise what he was doing. He flicked a quick glance over at Sam, glad to see that his brother had his nose buried deep in a book and appeared to be oblivious to any discomfort on his sibling’s behalf.

Dean took a deep breath and forced himself to relax into his normal driving position. He dropped back a few feet further away from John’s tailgate and tried not to check the rear view mirror more than necessary. By the time they pulled up in front of the ranch house he’d almost managed to convince himself there wasn’t anything following him.

.

“Good of you to let us bunk down here.” John tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, amusement crinkling the skin around his eyes as he watched his sons wandering around the ranch. Dean’s tousled spikes and Sam’s unruly mop were close together as they poked into one corner after another and hovered over each new discovery. Sam’s excited gestures and Dean’s grin gave an impression of kids half their age and it made him wonder briefly what it would’ve been like, if they’d had a normal life. He squashed the thought quickly, because thinking like that took his mind on dark paths that led inevitably to the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

Joe smiled at him, shrugging easily. “Nice to have the company. ‘Sides, it makes sense. If Lacey turns up we’ll all be in the same place; make it easier to look out for your boys.”

.

“Good thing Dad had a good supply of salt on the truck,” Sam noted, deftly swiping the last sack out of Dean’s fingers.   “I’ll finish off.”

“I got it,” Dean grumbled, but he made no attempt to take the sack away from his brother; the ranch house had a lot of windows and the hot tub was becoming more appealing by the minute.

“If I had a house like this,” Sam observed, “I’d invent some kinda automatic dispenser along the window ledges and doors.” He poured the last salt in a neat line across a window, his forehead screwed up in concentration. “Maybe there’s a way you could put a salt block inside the frame, so it never got wet…”

By the time he started on about ionic compounds and electrical conductivity, Dean had filed the idea away for future reference and stopped listening.

“Dean!” Sam sounded exasperated.

“What?” Dean jumped, guilty.

“You’re not listening.”

Dean flapped a hand at him. “I got it dude. Salt doesn’t conduct electricity, so ghosts can’t get across it until it gets wet.” He lifted a corner of his mouth in a smirk. “Talkin’ about wet, I’m gonna hit that hot tub. Wonder if there’s any hot chicks hangin’ around.”

Sam pursed his lips. “Gross. That’s gross. ‘Sides the only chick after you around here is kinda cold.”

Dean scowled. That was a thought he could’ve done without.

.

The hot tub was as good as he’d expected. Dean lounged around in it for quite a while, soaking in the warm water and just letting his mind drift. It was the most peaceful place he could ever remember being in, all golden lamplight reflecting off the honey shades of the wooden walls and timbered roof. The gleaming glass of the big picture window showed the reflection of his head super-imposed over the velvet dark of the night. He was nearly asleep when he realised the room was suddenly much colder than before.

He sat up straight warily, something more than the cold making the hairs lift along his arms and shoulders. An amorphous white shape was hovering just outside the window. It wavered, wobbled, forming into a young woman… Lacey.

Dean splashed out of the tub, water streaming down off his body as he snatched at the towel. He dried off quickly, keeping one eye on the ghost as he dragged his pants and t-shirt on over damp skin. As soon as his feet were laced in his boots he set off at a jog along the covered-in veranda towards the door into the main part of the house.

The others were around the low table in front of the log fire in the lounge when Dean burst through the door. “Bitch is here,” he said without preamble.

Almost instantaneously, the main door slammed back on its hinges. Lacey stood poised on the far side of the salt line, her pretty features drawn into an angry scowl.

Joe was on his feet immediately, inserting himself in front of the Winchesters.

“You can’t have him,” he told her.

“He’s mine,” she hissed back, giving off a low crackle of energy. “I’ve been waitin’ so long.”

“No!” Joe stepped towards her. “Ben’s dead. You need to let go, move on. He ain’t never comin’ back.”

“He’s back,” she insisted. “I can feel him!” Her dark eyes fixed first on Dean, then Joe, then back on Dean. She looked a little confused, the energy pulsing, unstable. “He’s here.”

John pushed forwards, obscuring Dean’s view of the door. “Stay back,” he growled out of the corner of his mouth.

Lacey flickered, a low hum filling the room. She rose higher from the ground, fixing her gaze on Dean. He squared his shoulders, determined not to let the uneasiness in his gut show on his face. “Get away from me, you freak.”

“You’re mine.” She told him, pointing a pale finger in his direction. He opened his mouth to reply as a massive pulse of energy flew across the room. It slammed into John’s torso, throwing him sideways into wall. His head cracked against the timber with a sickening thud and he sprawled forwards across the salt line.

Lacey seemed to flow like smoke across the bridge formed by John’s huddled form. She surged forwards towards Dean. He palmed Sam’s arm, propelling his brother away from him as Lacey took hold of his shoulders and swung him around, hurling him through the doorway. He tucked and rolled, coming up on his feet, well outside the protective salt lines.

No sooner was he on his feet when Sam slammed into him, thrown through the doorway in his wake. They went sprawling over the top of a low wall, coming to a bruising halt on the far side.

Dean got his head up over the top of the wall. He could see John, lying still, only his dark hair stirring in the wind as it brushed to and fro across the scattered white of the salt crystals.

Joe was in front of the wall, Lacey’s ghostly fingers twisted in his hair. She was shouting, violent flickers erupting around her.

Dean fought against the weight of his brother’s limbs. “M’okay,” Sam reassured him, sounded winded, trying to assist.

Lacey tore the shirt off Joe’s back, flinging it behind her. His face twisted in agony as she thrust a pale hand into his shoulder, the sound of cracking bone sharp and sickening. He cried out, once, the sound cut off abruptly as she said something into his ear. He slumped forwards onto his hands and knees, the pale light given off by her skin making the huge snake tattoo curling from his wrist up and across his shoulders seem to writhe with a life of its own.

Dean made it onto his feet, dragging his gaze away from the thick rope of blood oozing from Joe’s shoulder and sliding down the coils of the snake to his wrist and onto the grass. He launched himself towards the shotgun lying next to John’s outstretched hand, but something snatched him up and threw him through the air as though he was no more than a rag doll. He slammed into the truck, the windshield shattering beneath his weight as he hit it with his shoulder. His torso and head dropped through, legs still sprawling across the hood. For a moment he thought he was going to be okay but then a hand took hold of his ankle and pulled hard and somewhere on the way back through the broken windshield his head smacked against the dashboard and then there was nothing.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday to my boy... got your back son.

It was dark. So, very, very dark. When Dean slid nauseatingly back to consciousness, it took him a moment to work out whether or not his eyes were actually open. He blinked furiously a few times, adrenaline giving him a quick push back to full awareness when the flutter of his eyelashes against his cheeks gave confirmation that his eyes were opening and closing, but he still couldn’t see anything at all.

For a crazed second that made his gut lurch, he thought he might be blind. He fumbled his lighter out of the front pocket of his jeans and thumbed the wheel. To his relief, it sparked and lit, the tall yellow flame as dazzling as a supernova after the thick velvet of the enveloping darkness.

He pulled himself together with some difficulty, a bit befuddled by the blow to his head and the sudden adrenaline spike. He realised that he was sitting on a hard surface, the gritty, cold feel of it beneath his fingertips suggesting it was probably concrete. He was in the open air, his back against a timbered wall that stretched out to either side of him and above him far beyond the reach of the small, yellow circle of light cast by the lighter flame. He thought it might be the wall of a large building; the wind sound around and above it suggesting huge area and bulk. There was nothing else visible but the edge of the concrete and some grass, although the noise of moving branches and a smell of pine needles made it clear that there were trees somewhere close by. There was no sign of Lacey.

Dean pushed himself to his feet; he wasn’t going to wait around for her to come back. The blood thumped unpleasantly in his forehead, but it wasn’t too bad. At the age of just twenty, he already considered himself a bit of an expert when it came to injuries to his head and this was about a five… ten being hospitalisation and one being a hiss and a grunt and a rub of the scalp.

There was no warning at all. One minute he was supporting himself against the building with one hand, the other holding the flickering lighter aloft. The next minute, she was there. Rage throbbed in currents of energy through her pale figure as she lashed out at him, sending the lighter spinning in a catherine wheel of sparks through the air. It landed on the grass somewhere and went out. The darkness rushed back in immediately, shrinking his world to the feel of the wall under his hand and the dim glow of the ghostly woman in front of him.

Dean launched himself past her, keeping tucked tight against the side of the building, then backed off as quickly as he could, hoping he didn’t fall.

“You’re mine,” she informed him, a sibilant hiss underlying her words.

“That’s gettin’ old, you ugly ass bitch.” Suddenly, unexpectedly, Dean was pissed. “What is your freakin’ problem anyhow? You’re not my type lady. I’m not your dead boyfriend! Look!” He gestured to his chest, dimly illuminated by the glow from the spectral form. “Look, ALIVE! See? You’re dead, and it’s time you moved the hell on.”

She was still gawking at him when a figure appeared around the end of the building behind her, flashlight in one hand and shotgun levelled in the other. “DEAN!”

Recognising his brother’s voice, Dean dropped to the floor, landing facedown with a thud. His head protested at the sudden movement, but the blast of the shotgun at close quarters was still enough to hurt his ears and send a small shower of something across his hair and back. Lacey disappeared with a shriek.

“Dean!” Sam was pawing clumsily at his shoulder, the flashlight still in his hand.

“Uh.” Dean said, unable to think of anything more appropriate to the occasion. He got up in clumsy stages, scooping the shotgun out of Sam’s hands in the process.

“I got it.” Sam told him, his tone affronted.

Dean took a deep breath, feeling better with the weight of the weapon in his hands. “I know you do dude, but the floaty chick is after making this a permanent arrangement, so if she shows, you run and I’ll slow her ass down.”

He was about to ask where they were, but Lacey reappeared, so close to him that her dress crackled with blue light at the proximity. He recoiled instinctively, but still took the majority of the force behind her two-handed push to his chest. He fell backwards, rolling back onto his feet as he bellowed to Sam to “Get outta here!”

Sam hesitated for a second, then took off running, the bobbing flashlight illuminating the narrow path alongside the huge building. It was the main barn, Dean realised belatedly. The ranch house was on the other side.

He sprinted after Sam, plunged into darkness again as his brother rounded the corner. Lacey was right behind him; he turned and fired, blundered on again, blinded by the muzzle flash. Tried to fire again, and realised the shotgun was empty.

“Fuck!”

Dean’s hair lifted from his scalp as she closed her fingers on his shoulder with bruising force. He swung the barrel of the shotgun at her, hoping there was enough iron in the steel to slow her down. She hissed and released him, but the steel didn’t repel her in the same way as cast iron.

He staggered away, suddenly aware of the fire in his healing kidneys as the strength drained out of him like water. He struck at her again when she tore at his t-shirt, knowing it was futile but not willing to go down without a fight. She ripped the shotgun from his hands and tossed it aside with contempt and Dean ran, only the fear like a bright blade inside him giving him the strength, adrenaline keeping him a few steps ahead of her floating, sparking form.

Her fingers caught at his t-shirt again; he stumbled into the side of the building, grazing his cheek on the rough wood and turned to face her, his throat closed on a shout of fear as her hand came at his neck. In a moment of pure nightmare, something grabbed hold of his shoulder from the darkness behind him. Dean heard himself make an inarticulate, choked noise of sheer terror as he was ripped aside. The blast of a shotgun at his side shocked him to the core.

Lacey disintegrated with a wail. Dean slumped into the side of the building; a strong hand caught him under the elbow and steered him towards the corner.

“Easy there, son.”

It was John.

.

By the time the salt lines were repaired and John had dressed Joe’s wound as well as he could, Dean had managed to still the shaking in his hands. His reflection in the polished glass of the oak framed mirror was still pale; the freckles across the bridge of his nose standing out like distress flags.

Sam appeared next to him in the mirror. Dean jostled him with his shoulder.

“Thanks Sammy. Owe you one.”

Sam beamed, a flush of pleasure spreading over his young face. He looked at Dean with an earnest expression from under his bangs. “I’ve got your back dude.” _Always got your back._ Unspoken, but there in his expression. Then the gaze faltered, dropped. _While I’m still here._

Dean caught his breath, held it, let it go slowly through the clench of his teeth and forced a smile.

“Well I’ll be damned.” The shock in their father’s voice turned them away from the mirror. Joe had emerged from the first floor bathroom. His face was washed clean of blood, his hair slicked back and wet, the beard gone.

Sam’s voice fell into the sudden silence. “You look like Dean.”

“No.” John’s tone was sure, harsh with surprise. “You look like Mary.”

“Mary?” Joe stared at him, puzzled.

“My wife… late wife. Mary Winchester…” His dark gaze bored into Joe. “Born Mary Campbell.”

“You’re shittin’ me!” Joe’s eyebrows rose to match Dean’s. “Campbells from Lawrence, Kansas?” He read the answer in the Winchesters’ faces. “She’s m’cousin, once removed.”

.

As Sam pointed out later, it made Lacey’s interest in Dean easier to explain.

“It’s something in your blood. It must be drawing her like a magnet.”

Dean looked uncomfortable, but John didn’t miss the look on Joe’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks for reading... there wouldn’t be any point in writing if you didn’t!
> 
> So... some of my plot comes from dreams... guess who nearly crapped herself dreaming this one!


	10. Chapter 10

They hadn’t seen any signs of Lacey since the incident outside the barn. Perhaps it was the shock of the shotgun blasts, or maybe the surprise of Dean’s words? Whatever the reason, she was noticeably absent. Dean thought even the aspens didn’t look as colorful as usual. It might’ve been the dawn light, but he had a weird feeling that somehow their appearance was enhanced by Lacey’s emotions. If that was the case, she was sulking… although how a bunch of trees gave an impression they were sulking was beyond him.

As soon as it was fully light, they made a move to the hospital. Joe was clearly in a lot of pain and there was only so much John could do to fix a broken shoulder. They left the ranch house in a wary pack, weapons at the ready, but nothing stirred and they made it to town and into the warm fug of the waiting room without incident.   Joe went down to surgery almost immediately and with Lacey likely to reappear in the vicinity of either Joe or Dean, it seemed best to remain in the same building. The Winchesters settled in for a long wait.

.

On the mountain, life continued much as it did every day without the interference of humans. The sun rose and climbed over the peaks above the cabin, slid too slowly for the eye to track across the patch of cobalt blue sky and inched its way down again.

It was mid-afternoon when the aspens nearest the cabin began to shake and tremble, a little too fast for the flow of air across the slope. The movement built slowly until every silver trunk in sight was in motion, quaking, shuddering with an unnatural energy until there was a sudden surge and the unseen force was moving, rippling across the mountain slopes from golden tree to golden tree, roaring through stands of slender trunks, leaping like wildfire across gaps filled with pines or mountain grass.

When the flow reached the ranch house, it stopped, paused, swirled. After a while a small tendril reached out and grew slowly alongside the road, feeling its way from tree to tree, exploring, moving gradually towards the hospital.

.

Dean stood by the enormous plate glass window, his empty coffee cup twisted and crushed between his fingers. Somewhere behind him in the waiting room John and Sam were arguing. He wasn’t even sure how it’d started. A snarky comment, a sharp put down, a few truths and untruths and they were off. Again. Another layer on top of other, older fights, building up in the enclosed space of the Winchester’s tiny family until Dean felt he was suffocating under a mass of angry words and feelings and misunderstandings. He’d tried to smooth it over, keep neutral, all the time feeling as though he was being stretched ever thinner on some invisible rack. Eventually the angry words seemed to suck up all of the oxygen and he’d retreated, struggling to pull a lungful of air into his tight chest.

Even now, twenty minutes and a cup of vile machine coffee later, he had to concentrate. _Clench your teeth, don’t move, breathe in, breathe out, don’t friggin’ think about it. I gotta think about it; it’s my fault. We should’ve ganked this ghost and been outta here. If I hadn’t got sick… my fault. I can’t hear them. That’s good… Is that good? Are they really pissed now? What’s gonna happen if Sam says somethin’ about… ‘bout college. Crap. College. He’s gonna GO! He CAN’T go! But he has to go ‘cause this life, it’s no good for him. But what’s Dad gonna do? Shit… how can I look after Sammy if he’s not here? What am I gonna do?_

Dean’s heart hammered, the blood pulsing in his ears, breath too quick now, almost dizzy. He stood perfectly still, everything locked inside a statue of tense muscle and taut bone clad in ragged denim and leather, only the white skin around his nostrils and the tightness at the corner of his eyes indicating the trauma behind the perfect features.

Behind him he heard Sam’s voice, a snap in the tone, followed by the thud of the toilet door. John’s boots sounded, squeaking on the shiny floor until they stopped at the corner of the corridor. Dean knew his father watched him, felt his silent, brooding gaze burning into his shoulders. He froze, refusing to turn, forgetting to breathe, until the boots squeaked back to the waiting area.

_Breathe, just breathe. Why can’t they just stop? Please… just stop._

The cup crumpled a little more, a trickle of coffee running cold over his fingers and dripping onto the floor. Dean stared at the tiny puddle, unwanted dregs, chilly, discarded, wondered if it was his life dripping away. On the other side of the plate glass an aspen tree shivered on the patch of grass the hospital optimistically described as a garden. Shivered and settled, as though it was waiting.

.

The night crawled by, long silences interspersed with wounded sighs from Sam and ragged snores from John. Dean dozed fitfully, his frame twisted awkwardly on the hard plastic chairs, drawn time and time again to the big window and the wide open space outside. The tree in the middle of the grass patch seemed to be moving independently of any of the nearby bushes or trees. By 3 am, half asleep and eyes sore with tiredness, Dean was sure it was beckoning to him.

Joe signed himself out first thing next morning. White with pain, he looked at them from shadowed eyes and said simply, “She’s here.”

Dean thought about the lone tree on the hospital grass and wasn’t inclined to argue.

.

They drove back to the ranch house with the morning sun behind them, scattering the crumbs and grease of a drive thru breakfast onto the upholstery of the truck seats. Joe rode shotgun up next to John, it being easier to get into the front seat with a broken shoulder. He chewed his breakfast and swallowed painkillers and coffee with a grim determination.

Alongside them the trees rippled, almost as though the passage of the truck created a bow wave of energy.

“She’s letting us pass.” John observed grimly.

“We’re doin’ what she wants I guess.” Joe’s voice was steady.

John raised an eyebrow. “Why the aspens?”

“She loved ‘em I guess. Pretty girl, pretty tree.” Joe sighed, looked away. “Hung herself from one in the end.”

Sam’s head came up, interest sharpening his features.

“If Lacey’s spirit went into the tree where she died, mebbe she can travel through them somehow?” He frowned, squinting under his bangs as he pulled something out of the recesses of his mind. “I read something about Japan. Way back, they thought nature deities lived in the trees. Kodama, I think? They figured the nature spirits could travel through the forest from tree to tree. I guess Lacey found a way?”

“Sounds good, Sam.” John nodded his agreement in the mirror. Sam looked pleased. It was a peace offering of sorts.

John turned his dark gaze to the road ahead, kept it fixed there, his calloused fingers loose on the wheel.

“I guess we could drive away. No aspens. No Lacey.”

It was said in a flat tone, but it was a challenge and everyone in the truck knew it.

“Not leavin’ innocents to suffer.” The answer from Joe, immediate, mild. He didn’t even bother to turn towards John, keeping his gaze aimed at the treeline.

A small smile curved the corner of John’s mouth beneath the grizzled stubble. Challenge accepted. Test passed. Mary’s kin came from a good bloodline.

Behind him in the backseat, his eldest son kept his face impassive and hoped he was worthy of his mother’s blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… we’re heading for a show down…  
> If you’re in a region that has holidays this weekend, enjoy!  
> Many thanks for reading, comments and kudos; you keep us poor writers scribbling away!


	11. Chapter 11

At Joe's request, they stopped briefly at the ranch house. John pulled up so near to the door that he was almost on the steps and the stone edging on the driveway was damaged beyond repair by the weight of the GMC.

Joe didn't seem to notice, or perhaps he just didn't care. He went inside with a surprising turn of speed, leaving the Winchesters staring warily at the eerie undulations of the aspen branches in the stand near to the house. Lacey didn't make any other sort of appearance and within a couple of minutes Joe was back in the truck with a small pack and John was gunning the engine as they started the climb to the cabin.

Their direction of travel seemed to cause a ripple of emotion in the trees and the now familiar surge of energy resumed. It kept pace with them, moving ever closer as the trees closed in along the sides of the track.

John drove as fast as the surface would allow, keeping one eye on the trees and the other on the occupants of the vehicle. Joe seemed to be calm enough, taking it all in his stride, but this wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to him.

His youngest was quiet, his brows knitted as he pondered over a possible solution. Not scared, John noted with a sense of pride.

Dean worried him, had been worrying him since he collapsed on the mountain. He was unnaturally still, not displaying any of his characteristic eagerness, although that could be put down to the after effects of the physical trauma. But he seemed withdrawn too, his eyes often focussed on something distant, a little frown pinching at his forehead. Even now, with a showdown with the spirit imminent, his green eyes were glassy as he watched the trees close in beside the truck. John wondered what was playing on his mind, hoped it wouldn’t distract him when the shit hit the fan.

Even the brief glances John could spare in the rear view mirror showed him how worn down his eldest had become: injury, illness, surgery, more injury all piling up on top of each other and finished with a frosting of lack of sleep. He hadn't missed Dean's sudden withdrawal when he and Sam were verbally sparring in the hospital, engaged again in their daily and almost routine overflow of anger. A small part of him wanted to take Sam aside and negotiate a peace, even if Sam accepted it only for Dean's sake. The main part of him knew it would be hopeless, both of them too obstinate to be able to compromise.

"I'm sorry boys." He spoke under his breath, too low to be audible, feeling the drag of inadequacy; he thought he needed Mary now more than ever, just to make sense of everything. The ever present monster of depression reared its head and John slapped it down, hard. Now wasn't the moment. It was time to fight and it only took a quick glance in the back seat to remind himself he had good reason to fight.

.

After a while, the jolting of the truck seemed to push Dean’s half-formed worries about the future into a distant place. A peaceful sense of detachment from reality slipped over him as they were transported effortlessly through the world, temporarily held together in the confines of the cab. He drifted, watching the trees' hypnotic movement until the sharp jab of Sam's bony elbow made him realise they were already at the cabin. John was already by the tailgate and Dean trotted around, ducking his head away from his father's enquiring gaze as he took his share of the equipment.

"I got it, Dad."

"Do you?" John's eyes interrogated him, his hand still keeping a grip of one strap of the backpack. "Do you really? 'Cause I can..." He gestured at the cabin beside them.

"No!" The protest was sharp, a knee jerk reaction at the fear of being left behind. Dean tugged the strap away, repeating stubbornly, "I got it."

"Okay," said John unwillingly. "Let's finish this thing." He turned to Joe. "Where's this tree at?"

Joe led the way across to the tree line, only a slight hesitancy in his gait suggesting his injury was troubling him.

"Tough old guy." Sam's low comment was almost lost in the roar of movement from the forest.

They stopped about forty feet away from the edge of the trees. From there it seemed as though the whole mountainside was moving, every silver trunk in sight thrashing in protest.

"They don't like it!" Joe yelled, leaning close to them so that his words were audible.

He was right. Up this close, out in the open, it was obvious that the trees were distressed, every flutter of a green or golden leaf a signal of distress and warning. Belatedly, Dean realised the trees by the motel room, the one outside the hospital, had been gesturing to him to go away, not beckoning him. He caught at Joe's arm, his lips close to the old man’s ear.

"We gotta get her spirit back out."

"Mebbe gettin' her back into the one tree’ll do the trick." Joe pointed to a withered, twisted tree in front of them. "That's the one. Used to be like the others. Now look at it."

John's expression cleared, as though a problem that had been troubling him was suddenly solved. He motioned them into a huddle. "I guess that’s the answer. Aspen are known to be a protector, spiritually. Ancient Celts used the wood in their shields for that reason. I figure, when she hung herself, the tree sensed the trauma in her soul and took her in to protect her."

"Yeah," said Sam. "But when she turned bad, it fought to contain her, ended up all twisted."

Around them, the noise faded away as one by one the trees stilled, until only the twisted tree shivered and trembled.

"Guess she knows we're here." Joe took a hesitant step forwards. Lacey materialised next to the trunk. She pointed a finger in Dean's direction.

"He's mine!"

As she spoke, Sam became aware of a slithering, creaking noise. A root broke through the soil and twisted itself around his legs.

"Dad!"

John swore, hacking at a fibrous rope that had taken him around the waist.

His eldest fired into Lacey’s insubstantial figure; she flickered, reappearing almost immediately as the earth burst open around them and roots snatched at their limbs. Joe stood perfectly still as roots climbed up his calves and onto his thighs. He ripped the small bag open and pulled out a red and blue plaid shirt, its pewter buttons dull in the light.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Lacey! Over here!”

Behind him Dean fought against the living ropes; he was dragged down to his knees, wrists tangled and shotgun now useless. “Goddamnit Joe,” he panted. “Tell me that’s not Ben’s shirt!”

Joe spared him a brief glance, his golden eyes intense. “It’s not. It’s mine, we had us a matching pair of shirts. Crazy I know, but hey, twins y’know. I’m hoping Lacy don’t realise.”

It’d been a long time since he’d worn it. Still lean, his shoulders had broadened during his years in the oil fields, but it didn’t matter; the dressing on his injured shoulder was in the way anyway. He draped it around his shoulders instead.

“Dean! Sam!” John was down on his hands and knees, gnarled roots twisted around his torso, his teeth white against the dark of his stubble as he fought. “Get off my boys, you bitch!”

Sam managed to get the knife out of his belt; he jabbed and sawed at the roots around his waist. Hunks of damp earth fell loose, the blade slipping on the rough skin as it cut into the pale life inside.

“Get away, you freak!” Dean was held, unable to move as Lacey approached him. She was smiling, half of her face shredded by the shotgun blast and hanging in tatters down to the neckline of her dress. She reached out with a small hand, drawing it slowly down the sharp planes of his face.

“Beautiful,” she crooned.

Dean tried to pull back, couldn’t, his breath coming fast as the roots slid up over his ribcage, fastened around his neck like a deadly necklace.

“Fuck you…”

She smiled at him, leaning in closer as the root around his neck tightened. Dean choked, the air being slowly crushed out of his lungs, cut off in his throat. He could hear his father yelling… angry, helpless, the voice receding in the rushing of blood in his ears.

“LACEY!” Joe’s voice.

She frowned, but didn’t turn, intent on her prize. Dean felt her cold hands cup his head, she leaned in again, pressing her icy lips on his own. The fetid smell of rot and damp, wet earth filled his mouth and nose. He gagged, choked, couldn’t refill his lungs.

“LACEY! I’m here!” She turned this time, going still. The movement of the roots slowed and stopped as she caught sight of Joe, shaven, hair brushed back, plaid shirt.

“Ben?” Hope in her voice, mixed with confusion. “Ben, is that you?”

“Yeah honey. It’s me. I’ve come for you.”

Dean fought for air, got a tiny trickle through the constriction in his throat. It wasn’t enough; his head felt as though it was going to burst, his lungs burning as everything began to grey out, fade.

“C’m’ere sweetheart.” Every bit of charm and warmth Joe could summon was in his voice. The roots fell away from his legs, began to loosen their hold on the others.

John pitched forwards onto his face, got a mouthful of rich soil, found his knife again and hacked at the bindings until they started to withdraw. In the corner of his eye he could see Sam doing the same. To his right, Dean slumped backwards, his eyes rolling upwards.

“Shit! Dean!” Sam was loose, on his knees beside his brother, tearing at the roots around his neck. John heard the wheezing gasp as Dean took in a lungful of air, then another.

Then he was free himself and sprinting to the little tableau of the tree and Lacey and Joe. Holy water and salt spread around them in a circle, John panting as he worked and half-hearing the words that poured from Joe, smooth and sweet as honey. Lacey’s spirit watched him, rapt, all her attention on the man and none of it on John and his preparations.

John splashed lighter fluid liberally over the tree, aware of his boys behind him, now on their feet. Dean coughed, choked, bent double as he filled his starved lungs… and suddenly Lacey realised what had happened. Her face contorted with rage as she rushed to the edge of the circle of salt and holy water and rebounded off its invisible wall.

She swung to Joe. “You tricked me.” Her voice was cold.

“Joe!” John saw the root curl up behind the old man. “Get outta there!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this ramble so far... I'll be concluding in the next chapter so watch this space and thank you so much for reading!  
> :-)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter...

 

Dean coughed, hard, the sound raw and harsh in his bruised throat. Hands gripping onto his knees for support, he bent double, sucking desperately at the damp air and trying to focus on the ground. Gradually oxygen reached his brain and began to chase away the shadows, until they hovered like fluttering dark rags at the edges of his vision.

He pushed himself fully upright, aware of Sam’s steadying hand on his elbow. In front of him the drama unfolded with the inevitability of fate as John crossed over the salt line and into the circle.

“Dad!” Sam’s alarmed shout was enough to bring Dean fully back into focus.

A thick root had risen out of the ground behind Joe. It seemed to knock him forwards and he took a couple of involuntary steps, his head rising as his eyes sought out the younger Winchesters. Dean’s eyes were caught and held in the intensity of the golden gaze; it clearly communicated ‘run’.

“No!” Even as the shout burst from Dean’s lips, Joe’s eyes widened and the color drained from his face. He stumbled forwards another step, his lips drawing back as his face twisted in agony. Behind him John was hacking at the root with his machete, a look of horror on his features.

Dean shook off Sam’s hand and snatched up the shotgun, rolling forwards and coming up just outside the circle. He fired the shotgun at point blank range into Lacey’s face. She disappeared with a scream. Joe smiled at him with blood-stained teeth.

“Get your Dad outta here,” he said with careful clarity. A thick rope of blood spilled over his lips and snaked down his chin and onto his chest. It soaked into the plaid shirt like water on desert ground. Joe kept his eyes on Dean and sank slowly down onto his knees as John finally severed the root.

“Help me,” John grunted, pulling Joe towards the edge of the circle. Lacey reappeared behind him, grasping at his arm but John swung the blade of the machete through her form and threw Joe towards his son.

Dean caught hold of the old man as he tumbled over the edge of the circle and they went down in a sprawl of limbs, John following close behind. Lacey shrieked her rage, edging around the inside of the circle, the remains of her face contorted in rage.

Dean scrambled out from under the old man with Sam’s help, trying not to hurt him any further, if such a thing was possible. The severed remains of the root were protruding from his back where it had worked its way in under his ribs and behind his spine.

John tore off his shirt and wadded it up to slow the bleeding, slowly rolling Joe onto his side.

“Dean! Get up where there’s a signal and call this in! We need help, now.”

“No.” Joe’s voice was surprisingly strong. He turned his golden eyes on John. “I’m done for, y’can see that.” He coughed, blood bubbling out of his nose as he laid a trembling hand on John’s forearm. “Now we can finish this, once and for all.”

“It’s finished. She burns here and now, with her tree.”

“No. Not enough.” The old man struggled for air, a strange translucent sheen appearing on the skin of his face. Dean heard Sam’s sharp intake of breath behind him and understood suddenly that Joe was dying.

“Not enough?” John frowned. “How not enough?”

“Don’t ya see… tree ain’t keepin’ her here.” Joe’s head sagged to the side, the stream of blood increasing. “Y’said mebbe somethin’ of hers, or Ben’s… his hair…”

John’s looked pained as realization sunk in. “Nothing left of hers,” he said gently. “Nothing left of Ben, except…”

Somehow, Joe managed to smile. “Yeah. Except me.”

“Identical twins.” Sam’s voice, a cocktail of wonder and horror.

“I’m sorry I got you into this, you and your boys.” The old man’s voice was surprisingly strong as he reached out and grasped at John’s hand. John returned his grip, kept hold of the shaking hand as Joe turned to Sam and Dean.

“Look out for each other.”

Dean nodded, speechless, hearing the catch of Sam’s breath behind him.

Joe’s gaze slid past them, the light going out in his eyes as his hand slipped from John’s grip.

There was a moment’s silence and then behind them Lacey began to cry; she disappeared into the remains of her tree.

John stood up with a decisive move. “You boys alright?”

They nodded.

“What you gonna do, Dad?” Sam’s voice very young, a little cracked.

“You know what we’ve gotta do Sam. Salt’n’burn.” John directed a small, sad smile at Joe’s body. “Figure he deserves a hunter’s funeral.”

They built a pyre in the circle using wood from the wood store at the cabin and anything loose in the cabin itself. Somehow it seemed fitting, using part of something Joe’s brother had made to send Joe on to wherever it was he was going.

Lacey didn’t make an appearance until the very end, when John set light to the pile of wood stacked beside her tree and the flames crept up through the pyre and set the branches aflame. Then she flickered into sight, a small, pale form, young, untouched, her face peaceful at last. The flames roared as night fell and the pale smoke rose up towards the bright stars in the velvet sky above.

At the very end, when the incandescence at the heart of the fire was at its greatest, it seemed as though two other figures joined her, and then there was an almighty crash and the pyre folded in on itself and all three figures were gone, swept away in a great cloud of sparks that followed the smoke up into the night air.

Dean tucked his brother under his arm and pulled the collar of his jacket close against the cold wind flowing up the mountain. He’d look out for Sam. Always. The promise was a part of him, maybe it was all of him.

Their father stood apart from them, silent, watching another of Mary’s blood line burn and trying to forget that he’d just seen the face of his eldest in the flames.

.

They left the glowing embers behind them and headed back to the ranch house. By dawn all traces of their presence had been removed and John sent the boys outside. Very carefully he pulled out the photograph album and laid it on the coffee table.

“Good meeting you, Joe. Wish it could’ve been sooner.”

He ran his fingers through his dark hair and sighed, wondering if one day they’d all be together, somewhere, somehow.

Outside he could hear his boys, the sound of birds singing. John Winchester squared his shoulders. Maybe one day. But not today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, it’s finished. Many, many thanks for sticking with this fic and for all your kudos and comments. : )

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Comments and kudos always welcomed!


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